


Ephemera

by NKMLN



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Am I proud of that? No. Did I do it? Yes., Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Everyone is fine, Gen, Listen i know what the character tags say it’s not an rpf, OC, People listen to night vale, Possession, Virgil Angst, god I hate that but I guess they kind of are?, hivemind - Freeform, its a nosebleed but it’s blood, literally anyone: Hey how about we talk about our feelings?, virgil: consider. We don’t do that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-19 02:13:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16525334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NKMLN/pseuds/NKMLN
Summary: e·phem·er·a/əˈfem(ə)rə/nounthings that exist or are used or enjoyed for only a short time.





	1. What Waits in the Corners

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on my TS sideblog, @stella-scriptor

It’s eleven o’clock on a Saturday night, and Virgil has a headache.

This is not uncommon, in and of itself. Virgil gets headaches for a variety of reasons, usually because he forgets to drink water, but this one is not brought about by dehydration. He’s been careful. No, this one is undeniably Roman and Logan snarling at each other in the common room, the noise overwhelming, Patton’s feigned calm in the middle of it all. “Now, these are both wonderful plans, but isn’t it kind of impractical-“

Logan cuts him off. “Yes! This whole idea is impractical! The video is already planned out, and your plan is hardly time effective-“

Virgil rubs his temples as Roman fires back. He’s sick of their arguing. He’s tired, and it’s late, and he makes a command decision.

He leaves.

He hears Roman and Logan’s argument growing steadily louder as he materializes in his room upstairs, static flicking over his hands as he appears. They’ll have figured out something by tomorrow, but the argument could rage for another half hour at least. He leans his pounding head against the cool plaster of the wall. This one is bad, even for his standards.

He steadies himself and walks into his bathroom to scrub off his eyeshadow. He hears the noise below slow, stop, no doubt Patton’s doing. He breathes a premature sigh of relief as he throws away the tissue. His head continues to pound even as the noise fades. His eyes are still ringed with darkness, but those are expected, if unappreciated. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

The sink water is cool- his head hurts so badly. He grimaces against the pain, trying to remember how much water he had yesterday. Not enough, he concludes. Ugh. He settles for bed, turns down the light, and clambers into the swing he’d manifested years ago. His bed is still there, but on the awful nights, lying down is worse. He zips up the ‘door,’ leans back, closes his eyes.

This sucks.

Someone knocks on his door. “Verge?” Patton. He doesn’t say anything, just curls up tighter. He hurts. He hears Patton sigh, hears his quiet, padding footsteps lead to his room. Virgil tries to block out the pain. He must, because at some point, he wakes up.

Here is what he has never been told outright: there is Us, and there is Them. We are Traits, and we are seen, are felt, are real. We are here. They are the Instincts, the in-between, the unknown. They are the missing numbers in Logan’s equations, the unknown variables of any given moment, the fight/flight/freeze/survive from instant to instant.

Here is what he knows, what he understands.

(And here, too, is what only he seems to have pieced together: the others cannot teleport. The others cannot stop and start and manifest themselves into the outer world, only project. Here is the uncrossable divide. Here is Virgil, the .5 where before there were only zeroes and ones.)

Virgil wakes up in the basement, the part of the mind that is technically the subconscious, the dreamworks bordering on sleep. There is no headache. Before him is a gently rippling bubble of ever shifting grey lights. Before him is the focal collection of the instincts. Before him- a mere three feet before him- is the unknown.

He shrinks back, scrambling to his feet. The basement is dark, the only light coming off of the mass in front of him. He has never before felt quite so vulnerable, like whatever this is, it can see right down to his core, can clutch him and dismantle him, scatter him so completely he might never reform.

The bubble ripples in front of him for a moment, stretching a vague tendril of light outwards towards him. It makes a low hissing noise, like static. “No,” he whispers, taking a step back from it. He breathes deep, tenses, and bolts upstairs, away from whatever’s happening. He stumbles on the last step, catching himself just in time, and scurries the rest of the way up to his room, barely checking to close the basement door behind him.

In his room, lights still off, Virgil takes a moment to stabilize, to process, before sitting in his swing. He’s trembling, lacing and unlacing his fingers. Whatever just happened, he doesn’t understand. He thinks of going back to sleep, but at the same time, there is a hesitancy. What if that happens again? What if- whatever that was happens again? He’s alert in a way that he hardly ever feels. He runs over the events- wake up, scramble back, reach out, hiss, flee. Wake up, scramble back, reach out, hiss, flee.

Here is what Virgil remembers, too, that he dwells on until morning. Here is what he knows: as the static began, a dissonant beat ran beneath it, forming syllables, a name.

His name.

_Virgil_.

_Virgil._

_Virgil._


	2. The Way the World Ends

Virgil is greeted by a terse silence in the kitchen.

Patton swooshes by him as he walks in the door, brandishing a hand towel. He pops open the oven door and pulls out a tray of cinnamon rolls, placing them delicately in the counter. “Good morning!” He says cheerfully.

Virgil looks at him from under morning’s fog. Roman has his head on the table, covered with his arms. “No one should be awake at this hour. Why is Thomas-“ he yawns, “-why is he up?”

Virgil feels a stab of guilt. Oh. Logan scoffs. “Great question, Roman. Would anyone like to give us an answer?” Roman raises his head a little to stare at Virgil when he hears this.

“Sorry,” Virgil apologizes.

Patton hands him a mug before whisking over to the silverware drawer. “You were asleep when I came in to check on you.”

Virgil takes a sip of whatever’s in the cup- tea. “I had a, um…” he gestures to his head, and Patton nods understandingly. “Sorry,” Virgil murmurs again. That’s not why he was up, and he feels guilty for lying, but it’s not like there’s another option.

“Any plans for today?” Virgil asks as he sits down.

“Naps,” Roman moans from under his arms.

Logan stirs his coffee absentmindedly and takes a sip. “Not much, I think. A run to the store, but nothing else.” He materializes a notebook next to his coffee and opens it. “He needs to check the smoke detectors soon.”

As Logan reaches for his coffee again, he accidentally tips it over. He snatches his planner away from the quickly spreading puddle. Patton swoops over, brandishing a kitchen towel. “You need to be more careful!” He scolds playfully as he hands it to Logan.

Romans head remains on the table. “Sleep has forsaken me,” he moans. “Leave me to drown.”

“You’ll stain your tunic,” Virgil points out wryly.

Roman bolts up, scooting away from the table. “Nope, nope, nope.”

Virgil laughs. In the morning, in the company of his friends, it’s easy to dismiss last night as just another bad dream. Nothing’s wrong.

Something twists in his gut. A sharp, momentary pain stabs through his head. He does not cry out. Nothing is wrong.

~|~

Two weeks ago, Virgil had been confronted about the nightmares. They’d been watching a movie- he’s not sure what, now. Not Disney- The Little Prince, perhaps? There had been tears. Somewhere along the line, Virgil had snuggled against an all-too-willing Patton in a haze of semi-awareness and soap-bubble peace, and fallen asleep.

_The streets are lined with bodies, with wooden carts. Crows and rats and men-as-monsters has walked among them, heralding death with their every footstep. He cries out- And now the streets are lined with ashes, flowing and glowing red with heat. People flee the city, crying out for redemption. He falls to his knees and buries his head in his hands-_

“Virgil?” He wakes with a start, a shriek still caught in his chest. Patton’s voice rings out in a suddenly quiet room. Whatever the movie was, it’s been paused.

He burrows closer to Patton. “‘M fine.”

Patton runs a gentle hand through his hair. “Nightmare?” He nods, trembling. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Virgil chokes on the words as they come out. “There were carts and rats and monsters, and- and then there was ash and fire-” He falls silent, the memory fading.

“Alright.” Patton’s voice is soft, calm. “It’s okay, kiddo. You’re safe now. We’re here.”

He shakes his head. “They’re just waiting,” he whispers quietly. It’s not even a sound, just the vague imprint of movement on a breath, but Patton’s hand stops carding through his hair for a moment. He feels someone else move to their couch. The movie starts back up.

Nothing’s wrong.


	3. The Things on the Horizon

The day is mostly uneventful.

The smoke detectors go unchecked. Food is bought at the store. Virgil checks for a podcast that he knows will hit a little too close to home, but there’s nothing. Not yet.

He knows what happened last night, knows each event individually, but can’t string them into an order that makes sense. You’re here. Everything’s fine, he finds himself thinking over and over. I’m fine, I’m fine, nothings wrong, nothings wrong.

There’s a sense of falling out of his own control he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. He’s standing on top of a rough hewn tower, wind whipping fiercely, unable to do anything but feel afraid. And he does feel afraid. It rises through his stomach, something inside him seizing up moment to moment.

Finally, in an act of desperation more than anything else, he goes in search of Patton.

Patton sits at the coffee table in their living room, carefully assembling a puzzle. Roman lies nestled in no less than three blankets on the couch behind him. Every so often, Patton will check the picture on the box, make a small humming noise, and rearrange some of the pieces.

As Virgil gets closer, he sees that the air around Patton is glowing slightly, in indescernible shades. The ill-defined, ever-shifting colors wander vaguely through the air with Patton’s movements, hanging suspended for several moments after they leave Patton’s form. Virgil smiles softly, the cold clamp in his gut beginning to unclench. It’s nice to see Patton this at ease.

After a few more minutes, Patton stretches, color weaving through the air around him. Virgil’s smile widens as the magnitude of this scene sinks in. Patton’s form is glossed in a spiraling tizzy of colored light as he goes back to the puzzle. What Patton is doing- Basing, here, now, candidly- it’s incredibly rare. 

Any of them can choose to Base, to let go of whatever illusion makes them all look the same for a while, but for it to happen like this, without prompting, a Side must be exhibiting whatever trait they personify. For Patton to Base, he must be feeling a strong sense of peace, of happiness.

Virgil’s smile dims. His illusion flickers out when the need for uniformity is most, when he is stressed, afraid- and never in front of anyone. He doesn’t do that, not anymore.

Patton drums his multicolored fingers on the table. “You might as well come and help me with the puzzle,” he calls quietly.

Virgil walks in from the doorway and kneels across the table from Patton. Roman stirs slightly on the couch, settling back after a moment. “Is this okay?” Patton asks bashfully.

It takes Virgil a moment to realize what he’s saying. “Oh, yeah! No, you’re fine,” he assures. Patton glows brighter for a moment, shades of pink and blue pinwheeling gently into the air around him.

The puzzle is a picture of a crowded aviary- one of Logan’s, Virgil realizes as he checks the box. “Three hundred pieces?”

“Yep!” Patton says, connecting two large chunks. “We’ve been working on it together.”

Virgil slots two pieces together, then stops. “Hey, Patton?” Patton hums gently in response. “Can I have a hug?”

The humming stops.

“Oh, kiddo,” Patton says softly. Virgil is still looking down at the table, but he hears scuffling, feels Patton pull him close. “You don’t need to ask for that,” he says quietly. “You never need to ask for that.” He feels himself trembling, feels the light and heat radiating off of Patton, feels safe. The Instincts can’t touch him here. Nothing can touch him here, nothing but Patton’s arms around him.

He’s safe.

They stay like that for a while, until Virgil takes a deep breath and begins to pull away. “Thank you,” he says quietly. 

Patton’s illusion has come back. They look the same again, but for the expression of deep, bone-tiredness on his face. He opens his mouth, and for a moment, nothing comes out. Then: “I love you, Verge. We all love you, so much.”

Virgil nods, murmurs thanks. He goes back to the puzzle. He feels warmer, better. The feeling of safety is still in his bones. He’s fine.

~|~

He wakes up in the basement again that night. His name is louder now, more insistent.

He doesn’t feel safe anymore.


	4. When Our Lives Were Colored Grey

Virgil stands shakily, his knees locking as he rises. “No,” he whispers quietly.

 _Yes_ , he hears. _Virgil. Virgil_. The whispy tendril of static extends again, reaching gently for him, something like a hand- he wants to move away, wants to scream for salvation, but he feels frozen in place. He can feel the edges of the illusion burning away, revealing the Base underneath.

“No,” he pleads again, but the tendril keeps moving forward, stopping just inches from his chest. He shudders, flinches away, tries desperately to regain control. The Instincts continue to crackle and hiss out his name, and they’re so close. The terror is all-consuming: this is real, it is real, he cannot run or pretend anymore.

His illusion flickers, dies.

All hell breaks loose.

The Instincts swoop forward those last crucial centimeters, plunging into his chest. He cries out in panic- their weight is tangible, a feeling of icy warmth in his chest. He stumbles backwards, falling onto his back, and the Instincts slam into him again, again- he feels himself flinch with each, curling tight into a ball. It’s not pain, not quite, but there’s a sense of harsh intrusion, fingers squeezing tight around his mind.

He cries out again, softer this time, less capable of noise. The cold/hot fingers grip tighter. His name is a chant, dissolving into pops and white noise the longer he listens. The fingers dig into his core, harder and harder, until something gives. He feels it- a sudden rush, like air into lungs.

They retreat. Virgil sits up, does his best to crawl away, not taking his eyes off of them for a second.

The main tendril is still there, hovering perhaps two feet in front of his face. It’s different now: weaving among the crackling grey are soft colors, twinkling lights. “What...” he struggles for words against the lingering ice heat in his skull. “What did you do to me?” It doesn’t hurt, but they’re still in his head and there is, by definition, a massive difference between pain, discomfort and ease. 

 _Leave_ , he thinks. _Leave, now, before they try something else._

He doesn’t.

The tendril does not move towards him, but rears up and points towards the Instincts. Virgil stands again, a hand on the banister of the stairs. The tendril becomes more insistent. “What did you do to me?” he hears himself ask again. The static in his skull burns. The tendril continues pointing.

Virgil shakes his head. “Leave me alone.” The tendril stops for a moment, like it’s confused.

“I’m not one of you.” The tendril does nothing, just keeps precariously still. He can still hear his name.

“Get out of my head, and leave. Me. Alone. I’m not-“ His voice breaks. He’s so terrified, his illusion hasn’t even returned yet. He’s still Basing. “I’m not one of you.”

The tendril moves forward slightly, hesitating just a moment before doing so. It’s like it can see him. It rears up a little before jabbing towards his hand. Virgil flinches back. The tendril moves away too, when it sees that, but it repeats it’s motion, gentler this time. Slowly, carefully, Virgil raises a hand. “What?” he asks.

It’s been a very long night for someone who’s only woken up a few minutes ago. The tendril gestures at his hand, then back at the cloud of Instincts. Virgil puts his hand down, forcing the illusion back up as he does so. He doesn’t look at his Base. He won’t validate their points. “I’m not one of you.” He turns for the stairs, puts one foot on the bottom one. He can teleport, but he wants to make this pointed. (He won’t teleport, won’t see himself covered with grey static, won’t look at his base, won’t, won’t, won’t.) He hears the chant behind him change, sharply. The discordant voices disappear, turning into one made of hissing nothingness.

 _Answers_.

He turns and runs up the stairs.

~|~

Two days before Virgil had told the others his name, he and Roman had argued. To say the least, it had been explosive. He remembers hearing, “You’re purposeless,” remembers shooting back, “If that were true, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He remembers winning, remembers sending Roman skulking away.

And he remembers the next day, too, when Logan had gathered them and formally asked what their Bases looked like. He remembers freezing, remembers Logan’s measured voice saying, “I’m just trying to see if there’s any correlation between them.” Logan had already Based, as he is known to do in times of great curiosity. His arms at his elbows down faded into clear, smooth material reminiscent of glass. Underneath, small, intricate clockwork tick, tick, ticks out motion. Patton had complied near immediately, color beginning to pinwheel into the air, as had Roman, his eyes sharpening into a bright, leafy green, shot through with the brown of loam, the air around them suddenly tinted with the unmistakable scent of woods.

And Virgil had panicked. “Anxiety?” He’d heard Logan prompt. “Are you alright?”

He remembers hearing Romans voice, dripping with contempt. “He doesn’t want us to see.”

“There’s no reason to be afraid, kiddo, we’re all here for you!”

He remembers his breath drawing short. “I don’t- I don’t want to mess up your results,” he’d tried to excuse.

Logan had adjusted his glasses. “I’m sure you won’t, Anxiety, but if you don’t feel comfortable, I’ll just use the data I already have.”

Logan had been trying so hard.

He remembers the final blow. “Leave it alone, Lo, we all know he’s not like us anyway.” He’d heard Romans voice, had known what the next words were going to be. “He’s just a-“

“I am _not_ an Instinct.”

He’d stood at that, heard Patton gasp as his illusion flickered out in sheer panic, revealing a form drowning in static, just like the ones downstairs.

And Virgil had fled to his room, sealing himself off in a fit of anger and fear, the one thing he’d vowed never to think racing through his head. _They’re right._ _Admit it._ He’d sat on his bed, put his head in his hands, let his illusion build back up. He could hear Patton berating Roman downstairs. _Admit it. You’ll only ever be an Instinct._

But I’m not, he’d wanted to scream.

I’m not one of them.


	5. The Lies That We Sustain

Virgil is attempting to drag a blanket into his swing when the smoke detector battery dies.

The noise wakes up Thomas, wakes up everyone. He can hear them through the walls.

“Sh-“

“Language!”

It’s lucky, he supposes. There’s an excuse this time. But what about next time? And after? _You can’t run forever._ “I got it,” he yells over the chorus of grumbling. He can hear the loud beeping even outside the mindscape. He closes his eyes and wills himself to meet it, and then- there.

“You need to get that.”

His host jumps in the doorway. “I’m doing it, Virgil.”

“You were supposed to check those yesterday.”

“I’m already doing it, Virgil!” Thomas sighs. “Can you turn that off?” Virgil hops onto the bed and swats the button. Silence. “Thanks.”

He stays on the bed as Thomas gets the batteries, thoughts still churning, the back of his mind still boiling with ice. He can’t run forever, but he can’t abandon his post. Answers- he’s wanted those for years, all but given up on them. Knowledge for complacency, or, no, a place to belong. Knowledge for affection, perhaps.

Knowledge for love.

“And we’re back,” he hears as the lights turn on.

He hisses and hides his head in his arms. The icy heat spikes. “Off, off!”

The lights go down. “Sorry,” he hears.

Virgil holds out a hand for the batteries. “Let’s just get this over with so we can both go back to bed,” he mutters.

Thomas tosses them over. Virgil stands back up on the bed, takes the dead ones out, and hears, “How can you move this stuff, anyway?”

His hands still for a moment on the alarm, one twitching in warning. “I don’t know.”

“Can anyone else do that?”

Fingers skate over his wrist. Thomas is still by the door. He stays quiet. “Virgil?” It’s been a long night. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

No. Wait.

That’s not what- ugh.

“Can you talk to me about this?” He opens his mouth, tries, but- his own flesh betrays him. A battery falls to the bed. He leans down to grab it with the unoccupied hand. “Virgil.” And then there’s a hand around his wrist- a hand, a real one, not the ghost of a touch he feels out here. He stares at it for a moment before looking up at Thomas, who seems just as scared as he is.

“Explain,” he orders, and the marionette strings around his limbs fall away. He grips at Thomas tighter and sits down. It has been a very long night.

“I don’t know,” he says once. And that’s a lie and it’s the truth, too. “I don’t know.” He can tell the truth right now, and he’s not, and he’ll hate himself for it later. “I can move things here and touch things and I don’t know why, I’m sorry-“ The spot in his head burns. “I don’t know why.”

_Not one of them._

He fidgets with the battery for a moment before handing it over.

Finally, Thomas lets go. “Have you talked to Logan about this?” Virgil shakes his head, then says it out loud. The room is still very dark. “If this is really bothering you... the others might be your best source of information. It’s not wrong to get answers, Verge.” He stays silent. “It’s not selfish. You can worry about yourself, too.”

Virgil cracks a smile then. “I don’t exist, Thomas.”

“I mean, we’re having this conversation, so I think my advice stands.”

Virgil holds out a hand for the battery, but Thomas waves him off. “I’ve got it. You can head back,” he says.

“Thanks.”

”See you,” he hears as he falls back home.

I hope so, he does not reply.

~|~

It takes about thirty minutes of contemplation in his room for Virgil to draw a conclusion. His head burns, still, no sign of abating. No noise returns from the mindscape. They’re all asleep, or close enough. He has no answers, and finally, there is an option to get them. Really, was there ever a choice?

He teleports downstairs, doesn’t even stop to look at the Instincts. “Give me a day, and then I’ll do what you want,” he promises. He can feel his heart rending. His name is louder, and his head pounds with every refrain. He leaves as quickly and quietly as he came, defeat weighing in his soul.

The one thing he’s always wanted is so close.

It feels like he’s walking to his death.

He breathes, sits on his bed, and waits for the morning to arrive.

He does not cry. He does not cry.


	6. The Edges in Your Lovely Words

Virgil finally falls back asleep around three in the morning. The ice in his head has retreated slightly- it no longer feels on the verge of pain, blending into the space around it. His dreams are scattered and strange: _it is starkly cold, and he is clustered among so many others, all moving ahead relentlessly. He tries to ask where they are going, but his words fall dead in the air as they all turn in unison, too-cruel eyes and chattering laughs the color of the bird-filled sky._

He wakes in a fit, just a moment of peace before he remembers last night. He puts his head in his hands for a moment. He has made a terrible decision. It takes him a moment to notice that the burning cold in the back of his mind is still present- very weak, but still there. It’s more like individual snowflakes on skin than holding an ice cube. Comparatively better, but still there, still in his head. He takes a moment to close himself up and brace for the day to come.

Patton is downstairs, folding and cutting pieces of brightly colored paper at the kitchen table. Virgil is awake late, and the others have dispersed to their various routines. “G’morning, sleepyhead!” He teases as Virgil walks in.

A lump rises in Virgil’s throat at the sight. _What if you don’t come back? What if this is all?_ He swallows around it. “Hey, Pat,” he says back.

“There’s some food in the oven!”

He doesn’t get any, instead walking over to Patton and very gingerly hugging him from behind. _Don’t let me do this_ , he wants to say. _Don’t let me lose you. Don’t let me, please, stop me._ “What are you making?” he asks instead. Patton unfolds a paper chain of butterflies. His heart cracks, just a little. “Show me how?”

Virgil sits across from Patton, his hands trembling slightly under the table as Patton slides over some sheets of purple paper and a pair of scissors. “You okay there?” Patton asks sweetly.

_Don’t let me do this._

“Just tired,” he responds. It’s not a lie, per se, not one that can be latched onto and exploited. Unsaid words hang ripe in the air- those would be easy enough to pluck down. He doesn’t. He just sits at the table with Patton and feels his stomach twist. The only noise in the room is the snick and slice of scissors in paper.

“Have the nightmares gotten any better?” Virgil hears Patton ask gently.

He shakes his head. This is a nightmare. “There are less, but they’re still pretty bad,” he says carefully. The dream of the inhuman crowd is fading, leaving a feeling of clawing for a trauma.

“But there are less.”

“Yeah.”

”That’s something, right?”

(He thinks perhaps he is not the only one struggling.)

Virgil gently pulls apart the paper with his fingernails, revealing several folds of dark purple stars. “Oh!” Patton exclaims happily. “That looks so nice!”

Something in Virgil’s chest sparks into pain. “You can have it,” he offers, sliding it across the table.

Patton picks up the chain gently, like it’s made of glass instead of construction paper. “Really?” Virgil nods. Patton slides across the chain of light blue butterflies. The look of happiness in his eyes almost breaks him.

_Don’t tell him. You can’t tell him, you’ll hurt him, there are no answers here, only love and cold and pain. Don’t let me do this._ Virgil stands, and walks over to Patton, kisses him lightly on the top of his head from beside. “Thanks, Pat.” He tries to ignore how the piece of paper digs into his skin, how it cries betrayal.

Patton raises his head towards the affection. “No problem, kiddo! Go get some food,” he calls as Virgil breaks away. “And don’t forget your-“

“Water. I know.”

Virgil’s stomach is in knots- he grabs a small bowl and fills it halfway. The very thought of eating makes him feel nauseous. He does make a jug of water that he carries upstairs with him, at least to keep up appearances.

He tries not to look back at Patton as he does so. He tries not to understand that he is saying goodbye. He tries not to be afraid.

He fails.

~|~

Virgil goes hunting for Logan next.  It smells like wet rock in the hallway just outside. He’s going to shatter before the night even begins. “Come in,” he hears inside. He opens the door to find Logan sitting with a black notebook on his lap, filled its post-it notes and pencil sketches of graphs. He looks up and closes the book. “Virgil. What is it?” He’s not being rude, just to the point. Blunt. He doesn’t dance around problems the way the others do- it’s admirable.

Virgil holds out his phone and a pair of earbuds. “There’s a new episode.”

Logan immediately reshelves the notebook, pulling out a purple one with a picture of a crescent moon on the cover. “What’s it called?”

Virgil checks. It’s easy enough to pretend that nothing is wrong here. “‘Cal.’” Logan opens his notebook, reads over a few entries, and nods. Virgil presses play, settling on the bed next to him.

_Say something._ He doesn’t.

Their show begins.

Virgil has to pause it several times. Logan tries to pace around the room, nearly taking the earbuds with him. He mutters under his breath. Virgil can pick up phrases like “he’s not supposed to have a brother,” and “why is he bleeding?” Virgil stays quiet. Every word, Logan’s or otherwise, is a punch to the gut.

When they finish, Logan stays perfectly still for a moment before making a dull whining noise akin to an animal in pain. “Are you okay?” His only response is seeing Logan take out the earbuds, rise, and pull a large corkboard crosses with string and post-its out from under the bed. “Logan?”

Logan shakes his head no. Then: “Nothing makes sense.” Logan kneels in front of the corkboard. “Nothing makes sense! Virgil, _nothing_ makes _sense_!” He looks like he’s on the verge of tears. Virgil reaches out a hand, then stops. Logan makes a choking noise and falls silent.

The urge to confess has lessened slightly, but it comes crashing back in waves as Virgil stands to go. Words press against his tongue, so many that he feels he can never keep them all silent. He is fighting two losing causes. Further one, halt the other. Safety vs. knowledge vs. safety.

“Logan?” Logan looks up from the ground. And Virgil stands with his mouth open slightly, and the ice in his head spikes suddenly. _Say goodbye. Say you love him. Say anything._ “Never mind,” he speaks in a rush. “Good luck.”

Virgil falls back into his own room, near collapsing on the floor. He is falling already, and he is so scared. He wants his family, he wants to know what he is, but... not like this. His illusion flickers out, and he sees static envelop his fingers. He’s shaking, silently, alone.

This was a mistake. Everything was a mistake, he shouldn’t have done this, but his promise is unbreakable, with this thing in his head. _Go back. Undo it. Save yourself._ He wraps his arms around his stomach and lets the tears fall.

He’s getting his answers. (He’s going to abandon his family.)

He hates himself for it.

He lets his sobs taper slowly into silence, like everything does in the end.


	7. When There’s No More Time to Take

“Virgil?” He wipes the tear tracks off of his face haphazardly as he stands. Someone is knocking on his door. “Are you in there?” He opens it quickly, desperately hoping that his eyes aren’t puffy.

Roman stands in the hallway, one arm braced against the doorframe. “I heard you... um, crying? I think?”

Virgil’s heart beats a little faster. He’s committed himself to secrecy. “It’s been a rough day.” Not technically a lie. “Look, are you just going to stay out there, or-“ Roman brushes past him.

Typical.

“Okay,” Virgil mutters. “Can I help you, then?”

Roman sits down in the swing. “What’s going on?” This is not a Roman move. This is not a Roman thing to do. Virgil is quite suddenly very concerned.

“Nothing? I’m-“ _make him leave_ “-I’m fine. Look, can we maybe have this conversation somewhere else? You know how my room is for you.” His head throbs lightly.

Roman shrugs and stands. “Alright, H.P. Love-daft. My room, then.”

Better.

Roman takes him by the arm- he begins to suspect a plot- and pulls him across the hallway. There is Logan’s door, and there is Patton’s, and- Roman opens his and gently leads him in.

It’s sunny in here, with a glass ceiling like some sort of greenhouse. Romans bed is settled against one wall, and next to it lies a bookshelf full of treasuries, figurines, and glass bottles full of components. Directly across from them is a clear wall with a pair of doors in the middle, leading out to a beautiful green field. Roman sighs happily as the sun dances across his face. The immediate dry warmth settles deep into Virgil’s bones- for a moment, just a moment, the cold is chased away.

Roman strides forward and pushes open the doors. In the far off distance, Virgil hears birds chirping, the rustling of leaves. “Come on!” Roman urges him, stepping outside. He follows, footsteps uncertain, sun in his eyes. “Aren’t you going to take off your jacket?” Roman asks.

Virgil shakes his head. “Not a chance.” Had it been anyone else asking, he’d be leaving, but it’s fine.

It’s just Roman. It’s alright.

Roman leads him forward, away from his door and the room following, until the meadow gives way to a forest. “First of all, it’s entirely unfair that you have this much space,” Virgil quips as they walk. “Like, Ro? This isn’t a bedroom. It’s a national park with a door. And second of all, you have this much space and you haven’t done anything with it?”

Roman laughs. “How do you know I haven’t built anything further in?”

“Because then you’d have to have _more_ space, and- You have more space. Of course you do,” Virgil grumbles. Roman laughs.

The further they walk, the more Virgil sees Roman raise his face to the sky, like he’s drinking in the sunlight. It seems almost like he’s searching for any remnant of sun filtering through the trees. “So,” Roman finally asks, “is everything okay?”

Virgil feels his stomach drop. “Yeah, I’m good, it’s just this dumb headache.” Now that he thinks about it, if the Instinct’s cold wasn’t there, this would feel very much like a migraine, this pounding, pounding, pounding.

Roman looks at his for a moment, then shrugs. “If you’re sure.”

Finally, the path they’re walking opens into a clearing. A bench sits along the edge- Virgil sits down on it, Roman settles next to him. “I never got to apologize-” he hears him start. A beat. Then: “I never really apologized for the Base thing.”

Oh. Virgil stays silent, unsure of what to say, but Roman keeps going. It’s clear this has been building for a while. “I wasn’t even going to call you- um, one of them. I... That’s not... What I was going to say. I can’t- I can’t even remember _what_ , but it wasn’t- it wasn’t that.”

Virgil glances at his friend. “Roman...” Roman is facing up again, his eyes closed, like he’s trying to keep his tears from boiling over. “Roman, I forgave you for that a long time ago.” He sees Romans shoulders shake for a second as his friend looks back down from the sky. He sees his mouth open, and has just enough time to think, _that was so sappy_ , before the ice spikes sharply, like it’s trying to hold on to something. He winces and puts a hand to his head.

When he removes it, Roman cups a hand to Virgil’s chin, raising his head slightly. His eyes are searching. “Roman?” Virgil squeaks. The space where his heartbeat should be echoes in his ears. _Not today, not now, not when I’m about to leave you, please, Roman, don’t do this, don’t care._

Roman runs a gentle finger across the space between Virgil’s nose and lips before letting him go.

Virgil reels. “What-“

“You’re bleeding,” Roman says, slightly shocked.

Virgil’s first thought is not panic, but relief. Panic is the second thought, accompanied by a “Wait, really?” Roman holds up his hand- red, there, on his fingers.

Virgil swears violently, pinching his nose to try to staunch the flow. He tries to ignore the look of concern in Romans eyes. The burning cold returns with a fury, like holding an ice cube to flesh.

Something is very, very wrong- they both know it now.

Virgil is an idea. He has no heartbeat, just an echo of a whole. Any breath he takes is unnecessary. He’s bleeding from a vein that shouldn’t exist. But the fear- that is very real.

~|~

Movie night is Logan’s idea. Virgil sees them looking at him, at the blood (which stopped, it’s over, nothings wrong)(liar). He suspects it’s more to keep him in sight than to entertain.

Patton dozes off first, and he sees Logan beginning to nod during the credits.

 _Don’t let me, please, stop me, please,_ anyone.

He pretends to fall asleep on the couch, but keeps his eyes cracked open, waiting for Roman. Finally, all too soon, he hears three separate, even breaths. He takes a moment to steel himself before sitting up and standing quietly, carefully dancing around his friends.

He’s about to leave the living room, but he turns back for a last look. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

He walks down the stairs, acutely aware of each footfall. Each step takes him farther from the lights upstairs. He’s shivering.

The cold in his head is gone. It’s abandoned him too.

The Instincts don’t reach out to him this time. They thrum lightly, gently, a welcome. His breath rattles in the three feet of space between now and next. His whole life is laid out in a short line.

Two steps. That’s all it is.

He’s made it this far. He can’t go back.

Virgil takes the first.

He doesn’t want to hurt them, he doesn’t, but he needs to know. He needs to know. The world upstairs feels distant, unreal. The apology feels years ago. He stands motionless for a moment, considering.

Virgil steps forward, into the unknown.

~|~

On the stairs, a name dies on Romans lips. Roman, the ever-vigilant. Roman, the knight in shining armor. Roman, the savior. He’d seen the panic in Virgils eyes, and- no matter what the others might say, he’s _not_  stupid. He’d been awake to see Virgil leaving, and he’d followed. He hadn’t known what he’d say, but-

Roman had stepped onto the bottom stair as Virgil stepped forward.

Roman had seen him, and then he just... hadn’t. Virgil was there, outlined in static, and then he was gone. His friend was there, and then he wasn’t.

Roman cannot feel his hands.

The savior couldn’t save anyone.

On the other side of the room, he sees the Instincts pulse.


	8. Hold a Heart to Break

Things move very quickly once Virgil steps forward.

The static-filled air around him is cold, and he clutches his arms across his chest to stave it off. There is a noise in his ears like a roar. His breaths are short and shallow. The terror is palpable.

He takes another step forward, hesitantly- there’s a feeling of disconnect now between his intent and his action. Something teases against his chest, and he almost gasps aloud from the chill. Something else brushes his hair- he turns to leave, but the static is opaque. No way out.

Virgil hears himself whimper audibly. This was a mistake, this was a mistake. He stumbles back, or perhaps forward, he’s all turned around. Again, the disconnect. It feels like he is tied to his own body by frayed strings. He aches with the cold, it’s everywhere now, trailing along his throat, swishing across his limbs.

_Virgil_ , he hears something say. _Come back_. He takes another step. He doesn’t feel real. The strings, once sturdy, are now just threads. _It’s alright._ There is something in the not-voice that makes him choke with the Patton-ness of it.

He’s so lost.

_Help_ , he feels his lips frame, but the word doesn’t form. _It’s alright._ He stays perfectly still. One more step, and the threads will snap, and he will be lost. _Come back_. There’s something desperate in the sound. _Let us help._

Virgil takes a step forward, feeling like a sleepwalker. The disconnect ripples through the threads this time, snapping them each. Some distant part of him reels and falls. The cold presses into his mind, but now it’s so, so gentle.

He feels himself fracturing, but- he tries to pull himself together. It’s bitterly wrong. _No, not like that._

So he stops trying, lets himself scatter.

For a split second, Virgil feels whole, right, connected through something, and then-

There’s not enough left to think of itself as one entity, and then there’s nothing at all.

~|~

“Logan!” He opens his eyes to see Roman, leaning down in front of him. His eyes are wide and panicked.

“What?” Logan murmurs sleepily. Pattton moves against him, curling tighter against his side.

“I- It’s Virgil, Logan, he went downstairs and I followed him- and now he’s not there-“

He snaps awake. “Tell me everything,” he orders.

He moves Patton off of him so that he can sit up- Patton blinks slowly. “Wuzz goen on?”

Roman explains, and Logan feels his heart drop towards his stomach with every word. “Okay.” He has to make a plan, create some order. Get it together. “Patton, go see if this has affected Thomas. Roman, you’re with me. We’re going to go check his room. We’ll meet back here when we’re done,” he decides.

”He’s not in his room, I saw him downstairs-“

“We’ll check anyways.”

He hopes he doesn’t have to look in the basement. Virgil wouldn’t do that- right?

Roman creaks open the door to Virgil’s room, Logan just a step behind. “He’s not in here, Teach, I told you.”

Logan looks anyway, taking a hesitant step in and calling out. “Virgil?” Silence. “Virgil, are you in here?” Nothing.

Logan closes the door behind him. “We’re going to wait for Patton. And then we’ll go downstairs and look. Roman.” He takes his friend by the shoulders. He can see the panic building in Roman’s eyes. He understands, truly, he does. This is not a problem that he can solve by swinging a sword, by simply creating an alternative. “Roman, look at me. He’s not gone. He’s still here, or we wouldn’t be worried, you know that. Just breathe.” He waits until his friend obliges, drawing in air and letting it out slowly. “It’s going to be okay.”

When they go back downstairs, Patton is kneeling on the couch. “I woke Thomas up- he said he was fine, but he got nervous that I was there, so Virgil’s not-“ Logan hears his voice tremble slightly on the name.

Roman holds out a hand and draws Patton into a tight embrace. “It’s okay,” he hears. “He’s not gone, it’s okay.”

He sees how they twine together to hold each other up. He can let himself worry later, when they’ve exhausted their leads. Right now, he needs to keep going.

Logan waits for them to pull apart (their hands stay together, knuckles white) to go downstairs. The stairway is dark- he knows how many steps there are, can plan where to put his feet, but he hears his friends stumble behind him. Towards the bottom it is easier to see, which for a moment he is grateful for, but when he looks up, his relief evaporates.

The Instincts glow white, far brighter than Logan has ever seen. They dance and weave around each other, crackling and popping with white noise, thrumming and pulsing. “They weren’t like this when I came down,” he hears Roman whisper.

Logan vaguely recalls the definition of the word awesome, the original definition. ‘Inspiring of awe or fear.’ Part of his mind wants to detach from the fear and follow the word into another path of thought, but he resists the urge. He needs to stay focused for Virgil.

Patton clutches suddenly at Logan’s arm. “Look,” he hisses, pointing. Deep within the cloud, something begins to move, deliberately, purposefully, towards them. He hears Roman draw his sword. The thing gets closer, and as it breaches the wall, he sees wisps of static cling to its form.

Something seizes in his chest- it’s Virgil’s clothes, Virgil’s body, but the expression on its face is so unfamiliar that the thing in front of him is almost unrecognizable. Rather than the usual bored scoff, this is blank, utterly unfathomable.

Calm. Horrifying.

The static continues to tie and tether the Not-Virgil back to the cloud, and it seems almost like it ripples through him instead of against him.

“Verge?” Logan hears Patton ask- he’s never felt a fiercer pride.

The thing shifts its hollow gaze to Patton, and with all the damning weight of a church bell, shakes its head no.

~|~

Within the cloud, something begins to remember.

_Your name is Virgil. You are fear._

Get out of my head, he wants to scream, but he can’t. The cold is endless, all-consuming. He knows this.

_You’re from Florida. You hate snow._

No, this is right.

_You have three friends, and you love them so much._

Voices whisper through his ears, indiscernible. He knows them, too, but they are not three, they are legion.

_They are love and logic and creativity. They love you, too._

What is he? He is Virgil- Anxiety- Fear.

_You are the oldest._

No, he is the youngest, he rose in high school.

_You existed long before the others._

No, he came about after them.

_You were not made to last_.

He... what?

_You were not meant to last, but you did, and you began to fall apart._

He recalls blizzards and frost and snow. He taught them (who?) to hide- no, wrong.

_You fell apart, and we called you back so we could fix our error. Let us fix our error._  He’s not an error. _You were one of us, but we did it wrong. You needed to help them survive, and so you were stronger, but you were not meant to last and you did._ They’re not lying, he’d know, they’re telling the truth.

Let me go, he tries to say. There’s no voice. It’s so cold.

_Remember us. Please, remember, let us fix our error._

He remembers.

His voice returns, and his scream sounds like eons, like breaking glass, and nothing at all.


	9. A Homecoming is Just a Disappearance

Logan’s heart drops to his stomach. Behind him, vaguely, he hears Roman hiss at Patton, “No, Pat, don’t-“ and he sees Patton surge forward towards the imposter.

The look of panic and sheer anger on his face is anguishing.

Roman rushes after him, and physically has to pull him away. “Pat, no, we don’t know what it is, we can’t, that’s Virgil’s body, we might hurt him.” Patton fights for a moment before relinquishing control. Logan sees his shoulders shake.

“Who are you?” Logan asks. It regards him for a moment before speaking.

It’s Virgil’s voice- no, it’s everyone’s voice, but the inflection is alien. “I have no name of my own,” it tells him.

He feels himself breathe in, out, autopilot. He’s not allowed to be afraid right now. Virgil needs him.

“What did you do to Virgil?” Logan demands.

It considers. “He is safe.”

“That’s not an answer.”

”He is resting, then.”

Logan bites his tongue, but whatever he is going to say is drowned out by a sudden, guttural, animalistic scream. The Instincts pulse sharply before slowing and dimming by degrees. The thing in front of him winces as the tendrils in its skin seem to spike, jagged. It puts a hand to its nose- when it pulls it away, Logan can see blood.

It wipes it away. “We don’t have a lot of time,” it tells them. Logan looks back at his friends- he’s struck by the look on Patton’s face. The fear has been replaced by a solid, seething fury.

“What was that?” Roman asks. Logan’s heart thuds just a little bit quicker.

The thing-in-Virgil’s-body opens its mouth to respond, but it’s cut off by Patton. “Was that him?”

It closes its mouth, nods solemnly. “We assure you, he is unharmed, he is perfectly safe, but you must-“

“If you’ve hurt him, I swear-“

“We haven’t, he’s safe, I don’t know what that was for, I promise you-“

“ _Shut_ _up_!”

Patton stiffens, cut off, looking up at Roman as the thing does the same. “What’s going on?” Roman asks, and Logan thanks him deep in his soul for being able to cut through the argument.

The thing sighs (not Virgil, not him) and begins to speak. “Your friend was one of us, long ago. But circumstances changed, and we discovered the world was... darker than we had thought. He was made stronger, to protect you, and he became...” It draws a shaking breath.

Logan has no pity, not now.

“He left us. But the form he had- we didn’t think, at the time, that he would be needed forever, so his form was made to be as such. He was meant to return after about ten years, but- complications arose. When he left, he forgot us, and then he belonged with you. He didn’t come back, and his form began to degrade, you’ve seen evidence, I’m sure,” it explains.

The headaches, the nosebleed. It’s surreal, to hear Virgil speak of himself in the third person.

“So you’re saying we did this?” Patton’s voice shakes with anger.

“No! I- no. We all did this, me and mine most of all. We’re trying to fix it, that’s why we called him back. We thought we could fix the form if we got him here soon enough, but the most we can do is patch up the hole. At best, the problem can be stopped, not solved- Please,” and it sounds desperate, “we aren’t going to hurt him. If you don’t let us do this, we will all lose him. The degradation is getting worse, even now.”

Logan looks back at his friends again. Patton still looks like he wants to fight this thing- Roman still holds him back.

“It doesn’t seem like it’s our call to make,” Logan says, turning back. This thing is afraid, he sees now. “This is Virgil’s choice.”

He sees it relax, if only by degrees. “Then it’s settled.”

“You haven’t asked him.”

It looks him dead in the eye, then. “Why do you think he came? The choice has been his since the beginning.”

Logan doesn’t like this thing.

As it turns to leave, he hears, quietly, “Wait.”

They all look towards Patton. “Tell him we’re here, okay? Tell him that we’re here.”

His voice breaks on the last word- Roman pulls him close again. The thing nods before walking back into the cloud. Logan sees its form fade, disappear.

Someone takes his hand, and he finally lets himself feel his fear as he’s pulled into the embrace. Someone kisses his cheek. “It’s okay, Logan, he’s safe, we’ll have him back soon, it’s okay.”

He’s shaking, he realizes slowly.

“It’s going to be okay.”

“He didn’t tell us,” he says.

There’s a hand in his hair, and he’s falling to the floor with the others. “I know. I know, and we’ll figure that out when he’s back.” The hands around his back are the only things keeping him together. Who’s speaking? “It’s okay.” He’s making quiet rasping sounds, akin to sobs. He didn’t see, didn’t realize.

“Shh. Shh, it’s okay.”

None of them leave the basement that night. They wait. They wait, they wait, until Patton materializes blankets and pillows and orders them to bed. Logan lets himself be led, curling up next to Roman. “He’ll be back soon,” he hears his friend whisper. “It’s okay, Logan, just be brave a little longer.”

Logan just curls tighter and doesn’t let go.

~|~

Virgil drifts through consciousness. His waking moments are hazy, grainy, antique photos in water. He could dissolve in a second. Sometimes he does- he blacks out into disconnectedness.

 _Let me go back,_ he thinks when he’s capable of thinking.

He’s immediately surrounded by a sensation like sun on grass, like a hand in his hair. _Just a little longer, then it will be safe to leave._

He misses his friends, but this feels so right, and he knows why now, and-

Waking up completely is a shock to his system. Virgil stands slowly- he can stand, he has himself back- and braces himself against the wall. He trembles slightly, but he feels... _good_. He feels good, he feels whole. It was hard for him to see how little was left of himself until it all came rushing back.

He makes a small noise. There’s more, and that’s good, he knows, but the feeling has devolved into too much, too fast. He takes a step away from the cloud- his people, he understands that now- and towards the pile on the floor.

He kneels, and picks out his friends in the dim light. _They came,_ he realizes. This is immediately followed by, _they know,_ chased by a desire to step into the cloud and never come back.

He resists, seeing Logan pressed into the shape of Roman, Patton on his other side.

Virgil puts out a shaking hand, takes Logan’s in his. He sees the logical Side’s eyes slide open, sees him smile softly. “Hey,” Virgil whispers, a lump in his throat. Logan pulls him close, and they stay like that awhile, shaking in the darkness.

“Missed you,” Logan murmurs in his ear.

It’s all he can do not to sob. “I missed you too,” he chokes out finally.

He buries his face in Logan’s shoulder as he’s pulled to the ground in the embrace.

Virgil sleeps, in the arms of his family and by the light of the Instincts. And for the first time, he can begin to believe that nothing is wrong. They’ll talk, yes, but that can wait until morning. For now, he’s well, he’s safe, he feels _good_ , and that’s all he needs.


	10. Not With a Bang

Virgil curls up against Patton on the couch, Logan pacing in front of them. He sees his friend open his mouth to speak several times before rethinking and closing it. Romans rubs small circles against the back of his hand with his thumb. The tension in the living room is thick enough to cut.

Virgil doesn’t look up from his knees. He feels better, yes, but a sick feeling twists through his stomach. He shivers. He’s screwed up royally- what did he think was going to happen? That they’d forget, forgive- that they would never find out in the first place?

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out suddenly.

He hears Logan stop pacing. “What?” His friend asks.

Virgil swallows around the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry for lying to you guys. I shouldn’t have- I should’ve gotten you. When this started. And I...” His voice shudders and fails. “I’m sorry,” he says again, the loudest he can muster.

Someone delicately puts a hand to his cheek. “Oh, Virgil,” Logan says gently. “I’m not angry. We’re not angry, we just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Virgil leans into Logan’s hand. He grounds himself in the warmth of it. _They’re not mad._ He reels in the simplicity of the statement.

Virgil looks up to meet Logan’s eyes. “Thank you,” he says through a broken voice.

Patton pulls him close, Logan’s hand migrating to the top of his head. “ _Are_ you doing okay?” Patton murmurs into his ear. He takes stock.

”I feel... kind of cold, but I’m okay.”

Roman encircles him from behind. “Cold?”

He swallows again. His vision is blurry with water.

Virgil begins to explain.

~|~

It’s eleven o’clock the next Saturday night, and Virgil doesn’t have a headache.

He’d been on tenterhooks the first few days, waiting for the pain to flare up, but nothing had arrived.

The nightmares stalk, still, but now he knows they’re only dreams, even as they occur. They can’t touch him anymore.

Logan and Roman pass a phone between them- it’s Logan’s, but he hands it off every few minutes for help. Patton hums quietly as he finishes the puzzle on the coffee table.

Virgil sits on the stairs listening to his music. He catches Patton’s eye for a moment as he looks up from his work. Color radiates from him, soft and warm.

Virgil’s smile is the same way.

Nothing’s wrong. For the first time, he believes it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Five Promises Virgil Didn't Keep And One He'd Rather Die Than Break](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16801783) by [CoralFlowerDaylight (CoralFlower)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoralFlower/pseuds/CoralFlowerDaylight)




End file.
